


wherefore with thee, not all hell has yet broke loose

by tansypool



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: F/M, First Meeting, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Royal Arctic Institute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26927890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tansypool/pseuds/tansypool
Summary: A scholar and a politician's wife, in a too-warm Royal Arctic Institute on a too-cold night.Or, a way in which they may have met.
Relationships: Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	wherefore with thee, not all hell has yet broke loose

The scholar would much prefer to be  _ in _ the north, rather than rubbing shoulders in a London building dedicated to the place, with its ever-burning furnaces the antithesis of a north it exists to exalt. But the night is cold, so for once, it’s welcome, despite the need to divest oneself of three layers upon entry, and the lights of London sparkling thickly through the layer of condensation on every window.

He’s leaning against a wall, watching the room, empty glass in hand. There’s decent whiskey, for once, rather than the usual unreliable swill served by the Institute. Every time, he swears he should bring a flask, but every time, he turns up with empty pockets, in the hope that maybe the sponsor they’re trying to appease  _ this _ time has some semblance of taste. He’ll take a risk on the whiskey; he learned long ago not to even bother with the risk on the rare occasion they serve a tokay.

“You should  _ talk _ to somebody, not just wait for them to talk to you.” He doesn’t hear Stelmaria’s words so much as they echo in his head as she murmurs them. And he knows she’s right, knows he should make an effort. But he doesn’t acknowledge her words beyond a huff, and sips his drink instead, putting an end to a conversation that has hardly begun.

He’s overheard talk of some politician’s wife being here, which is the last thing he needs. Nobody with sights set abroad will have even bothered to come with that knowledge - no researchers worth talking to, no Skraeling explorers in London for any conferences, just bitter old men with gout and delusions of grandeur, fawning over a wife in the hopes of words whispered in her husband’s ear. Inevitably, not an interesting conversation to be had.

He has better contacts elsewhere, and he doesn’t need anybody here lining his pockets in the hopes of having favours owed. Better to drink enough whiskey that he doesn’t feel the winter when he leaves, in the hopes that someone he wants to talk to decides to turn up late. And so he stands, and he watches, his dæmon's muttered indignations floating through his mind to be ignored.

He ignores that his gaze keeps flickering back to the woman in the ice-blue dress, with the furs hanging loosely from her elbows, and the golden monkey by her side.

In the middle of the room, the politician's wife wishes she could be here as an academic, but her name precedes her, and her status precedes her. She is not seen by anybody present as a scholar of St. Sophia's - she is someone who can pull strings, who can owe favours and be owed them, not that there is anybody here worth being in any sort of debt to. Just old men with halitosis and hand tremors, who hold no sway worth seeking. There is always power to be found if one knows where to seek it; that power is not sought with men who lean in too close, their drinks threatening to spill in their hands, whose highest influence is over middle-class postgraduates on scholarships who will do anything for funding.

She had hoped for company worth keeping, or at least worth knowing, but there is a noticeable absence of scholars at all. A night away from the dithering of her husband's associates and those who are just as like-minded and weak-willed - it should not be such an impossible task. And yet.

If she had wanted another night trying to divulge secrets worth knowing from men who are not, she could have at least had it somewhere that does not run so warm that she regrets the furs now hanging loosely around her arms.

There is a young man leaning against a wall, staring across the room, looking as bored and disdainful as she feels - one of few people not gathered in a group. She does not know what it is that drives her to stand next to him, and tells herself that it is a decent vantage point, and that if the man ends up leering at her, he’s at least worth looking back at. It's a better answer to tell herself than the pull of her monkey, than the flicker of eye contact between dæmons, sharing a knowing disdain for every other person in the room.

He doesn’t immediately acknowledge her, and she does not acknowledge him; they are two people, surveying a room from the sidelines, knowing that tonight, there is nothing and nobody worth their time. Neither of them seems to acknowledge the way in which their dæmons cannot help their own unbroken stares.

A long, languid, white tail, drifting with the utmost precision, towards a crouching figure with a rigid spine and stock-still hands. A hair’s breadth between them - a distance neither wants to be the first to breach.

She has her suspicions of who the man is - younger than most in the room, with a snow leopard by his side, and an air of old money about him that is immediately obvious.

He has his suspicions, too, about the woman at his side - impeccably dressed and impossible to look away from, a luminous golden monkey by her feet, brushing away the cloying words of the men around her with a smile that does not reach her eyes.

He is the first to break the silence.

“What brings you here tonight?” He doesn’t look at her, even though she is close enough that he can feel the heat of her skin, and their dæmons are closer still.

“My work with St. Sophia’s, not that anybody seems to know of it.” She purses her lips, an action he just barely sees from the corner of his eye. “And not that anybody here would care if they did.”

Her monkey’s fur bristles, but neither man nor snow leopard responds. She doesn’t look to him, instead continuing to stare across the room, as she asks, “And why are you here?”

“Trying to find someone worth knowing who doesn’t live in Brytain. I’m based with Jordan College, but I don’t find myself there often.” At that, he looks at her, and all he can see is the blue of her eyes, the same as that of her dress, staring out before she spares him a glance.

“Then I’m surprised we haven’t met.” A slight glint of something, a pull to the corner of her mouth. “I’m sure I’d have remembered you.”

He mirrors her expression without realising, the slightest beginning of a smile. “And I you. Mrs Coulter, I presume?”

She turns slightly to face him, and meets his eye. "Marisa." It’s out before she can stop it, and even so, it does not immediately occur to her that were it any other man, she would not have let that informality slip so soon.

“Asriel.” He isn’t sure why he says nothing but his given name - and he knows that Stelmaria is just as unsure, but nothing more; she is at his feet, as enthralled with the monkey as Asriel himself is with the woman.

At that, Marisa holds her hand out, lets him shake it firmly, and lets her hand linger for a split second longer than necessary, just to see how he reacts. The same momentary linger, the same glint in his eye that she cannot hold back from her own. “It shouldn’t be such a surprise to find someone here who has set foot in a college in the past decade.”

Asriel cannot hold back a short, sharp laugh. “And for their absence--” he gestures to the interminably dull crowd, drink in hand-- “The colleges are grateful.”

It is nothing for their conversation to slip easily into that of mutual colleagues (of whom there are many), and of who in the room was worth knowing (of whom there are very few). Nothing to stand far closer than decorum would dictate, far closer than the heat of the room should allow. Nothing to promise another meeting, to ensure that their paths cross again.

\---

They both fall asleep alone - his townhouse empty; her husband gone until dawn.

\---

They meet again in Oxford, six weeks later, and neither is alone that night.


End file.
